


Shore Leave - Hey Sailor

by sadsongssaysomuch



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Chris is a sailor, Drinking, Evanstan - Freeform, M/M, Sebastian is a boxer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsongssaysomuch/pseuds/sadsongssaysomuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the picture of Sebastian in the boxing ring and Chris in the sailor uniform. Because I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shore Leave - Hey Sailor

**Author's Note:**

> _This is a work of fiction. The characters herein are based on real people, but the words and events are completely made up. They are not intended to be mistaken for fact, and are not meant to reflect on the actual people._
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> You can find me on tumblr at [lovealetterbomb](http://lovealetterbomb.tumblr.com/)

                                                 

Unforeseen circumstances, bad weather and being shorthanded meant that The Winter Star hasn’t docked anywhere long enough for the crew to enjoy shore leave for a long time. Chris is sure it’s been harder on him than on his shipmates, but not to hear them tell it. All they talk about when word comes down that they were getting forty-eight hours on shore was how much they miss girls, how that was the first thing they’d do, find a bar, find a girl, get drunk and have their fun. Chris likes the idea of finding a bar and getting drunk, but he isn’t interested in finding a _girl_.

Some of the men had family close enough that they’d be able to visit with them instead of indulging in debauchery.  Would be able to or would be forced to. Not Chris though, his family in Boston is too far away to see on a forty-eight hour liberty and besides that, they have no idea where he is at any given time. Mail is slow and unreliable so even if he’d told them The Winter Star was docking in New York, the letter wouldn’t arrive until months after he’d already been and gone.

So, not that he isn’t excited to be off the ship, he just has no idea what to do with his time. He follows some of the other fellas to the seedy part of town, where pubs line the streets and girls line the alleyways. He’s quickly abandoned when the other sailors he’d walked off the ship with duck into alleyways one by one or follow willing girls into bars.

He isn’t unsteady on his feet but it feels wrong to walk on the solid, stone streets instead of having the wooden decks beneath his feet. It hadn’t taken Chris long to find his sea legs when he’d joined the crew of The Winter Star but getting his land legs back is taking longer than he’d expected.

Approaching the last pub on the street, aptly named End of the Line, he decides this is the one. He’ll go inside, hope the beer isn’t awful and the whisky isn’t too watered down, and try to enjoy his time off The Winter Star. From the outside, End of the Line looks unassuming, the same as the dozen others he’d passed on his short walk from the docks. But even before he steps inside, a commotion assaults his ears.

He hasn’t set more than one foot inside before he regrets wearing his formal uniform. The navy-colored worsted wool is smart looking but the interior of End of the Line is packed with people and Chris can already feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck. His casual twill uniform would have been slightly cooler, not much, but it already feels stifling.  He chose to wear this uniform because as itchy and warm as it is, the wool uniform is easier to clean. It doesn’t need pressing after a washing and Chris hates to iron.

An almost immediate sense of regret hits him as he enters. It’s too loud, too hot, too crowded. Even if he wants to, Chris can’t turn around and go back through the door, there’s no space and the crushing crowd of bodies seems to carry him through the bar. A wave of people surround him, bodies that press against him on all sides. The bar is small, but there seem to be forty or fifty people packed inside.

Several strong smells assault his senses: sawdust, unwashed bodies, and alcohol and is that… the scent of blood. The air is stale, dust motes floating on the sparse beams of light from the lamps swinging overhead and the scent of unwashed bodies would be overwhelming to someone with more delicate sensibilities, but Chris has just spent endless months on board a ship with a hundred other men, so he’s grown accustomed to unpleasant smells.

Before he can pinpoint the source of the curious scent that he’s sure is blood, a hand catches him square in the back, shoving him forward. His abdomen connects with brass rail on the edge of the bar, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp _woosh_.

Yellow light spills across the scarred wooden bar. “What’ll it be,” the bartender, a large bald man with several teeth missing asks. His loud voice is barely distinguishable over the din of the crowd.

“I’ll have a pint,” Chris shouts back.

“Why is it so loud?” he asks when the bartender slides a full mug across the sticky bar. The mug skids to a stop in front of Chris, foam slopping out onto the stained surface of the bar.

‘You’re pulling my leg. You really don’t know?”

Chris shakes his head.

“I thought that’s why everyone was here tonight. The big fight,” the bartender says motioning towards the crowd at the other side of the room. “Red Watkins is fighting The Romanian Disaster. They’re on the seventh round and neither one of ‘em is giving up.”

Chris sips his beer. It’s warm and tastes like piss, but it’s still a beer, the first one he’s had in a long time. After paying the bartender from the meager amount of his pay he kept for himself, he scoops up his mug, holding it close to his chest. He edges his way towards the crowd, but even with the advantage of his height, he can’t see anything.

An elbow catches him in the ribs and then another as he’s shoved around again. Jostled and herded, he finds himself a part of the inner ring around the fight.

The two opponents circle around each other, one occasionally lurching forward to feint or throw a punch. Both are barefoot, bare-chested, sweaty and bloody. It’s easy to tell which one is Red Watkins, his ginger hair and freckled skin a dead-giveaway. The other fighter, The Romanian Disaster is the one that catches Chris’ eye though. He’s lithe and lean, muscles rippling just beneath his skin.

The crowd moves in waves, cheering, shouting, calling out jeers and jibes. Chris can’t tell who the crowd favorite is, but the other patrons are definitely passionate about the fight.

Still clutching his beer in one hand, Chris pulls out his handkerchief from his pocket, attempting to wipe the sweat from his brow. In the split second he takes his eyes away from the fight, a roar goes up from the crowd. Chris looks up to see The Romanian Disaster being pummeled, the distinct _thwomp_ of fist meeting flesh easy to hear even over the rest of the chaos.

Staggering backwards, eyes squeezed shut, it looks like The Romanian Disaster is going to go down. But instead of falling, he stumbles, retreating from Watkins, nearly tripping over Chris.

The Romanian Disaster’s firmly muscled back slams into him, spilling Chris’ beer down the front of his uniform. He can feel the beer and the fighters sweat soaking into the wool of his shirt and pants.

Seemingly startled, The Romanian Disaster turns to look at Chris, having nearly bounced off Chris’ solid frame. It’s only a split second but Chris’ vision narrows to the solid mass of sweat and muscles, bloody knuckles and dark hair before him. A pair of sea-blue eyes meets Chris’ and a bloodied mouth turns up into a grin as The Romanian Disaster snatches Chris’ handkerchief from his fingers.

“Thank you,” he sees more than hears the fighter say, as he wipes his bloodied lip with the handkerchief. Chris catches a glimpse of ruby red blood staining the clean linen handkerchief as the dark haired boxer tucks it into his waistband before springing back into the fight.

The Romanian Disaster seems to catch a second wind, and as annoyed as Chris is about the stolen handkerchief and spilled beer, he has to admire fighter’s form. That is, his fighting skill _and_ his muscular physique. Chris is no slouch in the muscle department, hours of manual labor have turned his arms and chest into solid slabs of muscle, as it has for many of his shipmates. But what might be hidden beneath a uniform is a different temptation than the half-naked, glistening man before him.

Whether he likes it or not, Chris is stuck with a close up view of the match. His beer is gone and he’s drenched, his uniform sopping with beer and sweat, his own and that of the fighter. It’s loud and chaotic and he should be miserable, but he isn’t He feels oddly invested in the match now, cheering loudly whenever The Romanian Disaster lands a punch on Watkins, yelling along with everyone else in the bar.

He loses all track of time in the crowded bar, and Chris has only the vaguest sense of how many rounds the fight continues. Chris can't take his eyes off the match. It becomes apparent that the Romanian Disaster is the underdog, but he’s fast and strong and he refuses to stay down. Somehow, whether it’s skill or pure luck, The Romanian Disaster win the fight after he delivers a solid blow to Red Watkins’ jaw

Red Watkins is unable to get up on his own and the dark haired Romanian Disaster is declared the official winner.  Chris didn’t think it possible, but the crowd becomes even noisier, people cheering as several strong men lift The Romanian Disaster on their shoulders and carry him across the barroom. When The Romanian Disaster is back on his own two feet, it isn’t long before he’s swarmed, surrounded by men and women alike, cheering, clapping him on the back, offering to buy him drinks and offering _other_ things.

Removed from the crowd now, watching with curious eyes, Chris sees The Romanian Disaster sit at a table in the corner of the bar, not alone, but not with anyone in particular. With a resigned sigh, Chris heads to the bar again. He’ll never get his handkerchief back now. He’s already spent far too much time watching that fighter, wondering what he’s going to do, wondering what his real name is... He may as well have another beer.

The crowd seems to dissipate after the initial excitement over The Romanian Disaster’s win. Some people leave, grumbling and dejected. Others help the concussed Watkins to leave. Girls who had offered themselves to The Romanian Disaster take other men upstairs instead. The noise dies down significantly, the crowd thinning and Chris feels like he can breathe again.

Ordering another beer, this one just as warm and disgusting as the first, he nurses it, sipping slowly as he tries to decide what to do with the rest of his liberty.

One beer turns to two, two to three, as minutes pass. He spends the time mostly listening to the bartender. Chris isn’t in the mood to talk, but he listens and learns the bartender’s name is Samuel and he’d lost the teeth he’s missing in a fight much like the one tonight. Feeling low, Chris decides to leave once his beer is gone. He only has a few sips left when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Figuring it’s one of the girls from upstairs, looking for one last customer, he doesn’t even bother to turn around. “I’m too broke and not interested besides,” he says firmly.

An unexpected voice come in reply. “Oh, well I was going to offer to buy you a drink, to replace the beer I spilled, but if you _aren’t interested_ , I’ll leave you be.”

At the sound of the softly accented words, Chris spins around in his seat finding himself face to face with The Romanian Disaster.

“Only, I thought you might be interested,” the boxer says, the words slipping past his swollen lip with soft edges and careful pronunciation. What is that accent Chris detects? Is he really Romanian?

Staring into The Romanian Disaster’s eyes, it takes Chris a moment to find his voice. Before he does, the dark haired fighter starts walking away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“Wait! You can by me a drink!” He doesn’t even care about the drink, not really. He just wants to spend more time with the soft-spoken fighter.

Spinning on his heels, The Romanian Disaster joins Chris at the bar.

“It’s just, I thought you were one of the girls… from upstairs,” Chris says by way of explanation.

The Romanian Disaster laughs, flashing brilliant white teeth. “Da, they are very persistent. I am very sorry about the beer; you understand it was an accident.”

“I know it wasn’t on purpose. You were kind of preoccupied,” Chris says understandingly. He knows it wasn’t intentional, and he can’t be all that mad. True, his uniform needs a good cleaning, and his beer went to waste, but the beer was awful anyway and now here he is talking with the distractingly gorgeous boxer.

“Yes, but thanks to you, I won!” The Romanian Disaster says, waving his arms animatedly.

“Thanks to me?” Chris asks, feeling confused. Has the beer already gone to his head?

“After I collided with you, I knew I couldn’t lose and let you down,” the boxer tells Chris seriously.

“Let me down? I didn’t even do anything.” Chris tips his head to the side, trying to make sense of the words. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought.

“You lent me your handkerchief,” The Romanian Disaster says, reaching towards his waistband where Chris’ handkerchief still dangles, long fingers trailing over the fabric. “A token for good luck.”

Chris’ eyes follow The Romanian Disasters hand, and it dawns on him that the boxer is still dressed as he had been during the fight, He looks like he hasn’t cleaned up at all, and clearly hasn’t changed. He’s shirtless, his trousers clinging tightly to muscled thighs and the tape still wrapped around his knuckles. Chris looks at his handkerchief, following the smooth planes of the boxer’s abdomen that still glisten with sweat even now, hours after the fight.

“So, would you allow me to buy you a beer?”

“I… I’ve already had a few,” Chris admits, looking at the empty mug in front of him. “They’re not that good,” he whispered, but Samuel was cleaning mugs with a cloth and didn’t seem to notice.

The Romanian Disaster nods. “Of course.” He thumps his open palms on the bar top  twice and calls out to Samuel, without even waiting for Chris to agree, “Two whiskeys, please.”

Samuel reaches under the bar and produces two shot glasses and a bottle of amber colored liquid. He pours their shots, looking at the fighter.

“On my tab, please,” The Romanian Disaster says.

Samuel nods and slides the shots in front of them.

The Romanian Disaster picked up his small glass, waiting for Chris to do the same. “Bottoms up, ah… what is your name?”

Large fingers fumbling with the small glass, Chris follows the boxer’s lead and picks up the shot of whisky. “Chris,” he answered. “And your name? I mean, what can I call you besides The Romanian Disaster?”

“Sebastian,” the fighter answers, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Ah, so The Romanian Disaster has a name.  Raising his glass again, Sebastian locks eyes with Chris.  “Bottoms up, Chris,” he says as he clinks his glass against Chris’.

Chris watches Sebastian’s throat working, his lips around the glass giving him all sorts of ideas. Chris tosses his head back and swallows, grimacing as the whisky burns his throat, trying not to cough. Sebastian seems unbothered. Chris slams his glass down, his fist clenching around the glass as he blinks.

“I know, awful isn’t it?” Sebastian looks at him sympathetically.

Chris blinks back tears and reaches for his handkerchief, his hand groping inside his pocket for a moment before he remembers that Sebastian still has it. Withdrawing his empty hand from his pocket, he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I’m afraid I owe you another apology. Or two,” Sebastian says. “I still have your handkerchief and I should have warned you how bad the whisky here is.”

Chris clears his throat. “Not sure which one I regret more.”

Sebastian flashes him that grin again, and Chris isn’t sure if the spinning in his head is from the alcohol or Sebastian’s dazzling smile.

Both, he decides.

“I think your handkerchief is too terribly dirty to return to you,” Sebastian laments. “I may have a solution though, a way to make it up to you.”

“What’s that?” Chris manages to ask, curious as to what Sebastian could offer him now.

“If you come upstairs to my room, I’ll wash your handkerchief out and we can share a drink. A real drink. I promise the whisky I have is much better quality.”

Sebastian rises from his stool, beckoning Chris to follow him. Chris stares at him dumbly for a few seconds. He hasn’t actually agreed to go upstairs, hasn’t said anything in fact.

“Well, are you coming?” Sebastian asks. He holds out a hand, grasping Chris’ forearm and hauling him off his stool.

Chris lets Sebastian pull him to his feet, wondering why no one in the bar is saying anything about the two of them. Looking around, he realizes it’s because the bar is nearly empty. There are a few drunks well on their way to passing out, the bartender, himself and Sebastian. No one notices because there’s no one there to care. He can't say no to the sweaty, grinning, dark haired fighter who ruined his handkerchief and is now offering to make it up to him.

Sebastian’s hand slips from Chris’ forearm to Chris’ hand and he leads Chris up the stairs, holding onto him like that.

They ascend the stairs and walk past several doors before Sebastian stops, letting go of Chris. He opens the door with a flourish. “Home sweet home,” he says.

The room isn’t any cooler than the bar downstairs, but it’s cleaner and quieter. It's a small room, just a bed and a dresser with a pitcher and bowl of water on top. There’s one light flickering on the wall, casting  their shadows onto the bed. A small window that overlooks the darkened streets affords Chris a view of the docks where he knows The Winter Star is anchored.

Sebastian ushers Chris inside, closing the door behind them. “I’ll wash out your handkerchief and then I should get myself cleaned up anyway.” He yanks the handkerchief from his waistband and dunks it in the bowl of water.

Chris watches as Sebastian scrubs at the small piece of cloth, trying to get out the dried blood. He isn’t sure whether he should sit on the bed or not, so he stands, watching the fighter struggle with the task of washing the blood out. This goes on for a few minutes before he realizes, of course, the handkerchief will never come clean.

Chris wants to tell him to stop, that it doesn’t matter, but his throat is dry so he lifts a hand to stop Sebastian, only to let it fall limply to his side.

Sebastian seems to have forgotten Chris is in the room and with one last swish of the handkerchief in the bowl of water, he shrugs and lifts the handkerchief to his lips, using it to try to wipe the worst of the blood off his face and knuckles.

Chris doesn't know what to do at first, he just stands there watching Sebastian making a bigger mess of his face. He isn’t sure what spurs him into movement, but something makes him step closer and take the handkerchief from Sebastian’s hands.

 Sebastian looks at him, raising an eyebrow, but says nothing as Chris dabs at the cut by Sebastian's eye, before he moves on, wiping the blood from around Sebastian’s nose. When Chris wipes Sebastian’s lip, he hisses, it's split from one too many punches, so Chris tries to be extra careful. He’s staring into Sebastian’s eyes, both of them unable to look away while Chris does his best to clean Sebastian’s wounds.

It’s on his third pass with the handkerchief over Sebastian’s face that Chris’ thumb brushes across Sebastian's lip and they both feel it. Those sparks of attraction thrumming through both of them. Chris has felt an undeniable tension building from the moment he first saw Sebastian and it seems he’s not alone in that feeling. Sebastian reaches out and grabs Chris' wrists, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, making Chris forget _everything_.

That’s when Sebastian kisses him, pressing his lips to Chris’, his hands exerting a gentle pressure on Chris’ wrists before letting go. They’re pressed so close now, and Chris clutches at Sebastian’s back and neck to pull him even closer, and he tilts his head even more because he just wants to _be_ _closer_. Sebastian’s mouth is so warm and his lips are soft, and when Chris opens his mouth into the kiss, he tastes whisky, salt and iron.

Untangling his arms from Sebastian’s waist, he brings his hands up to Sebastian’s face. Chris knows his face is rough with stubble; it’s been more than a few days since he last shaved. But Sebastian’s face is smooth, the sharp angle of his jaw strong under Chris’ fingers.

Chris’ fingers feel clumsy, too big and heavy to be touching that beautiful face and he pulls back from the kiss, slightly alarmed. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. Stepping away from Sebastian, he waves his hands, trying to clear the air between them, _as if he could_. “I’m such a _meatball_ , I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

Sebastian’s brows furrow together. “What do you mean, meatball?”

Chris blushes, he’s embarrassed and confused. “I mean I did a stupid thing without thinking first. I’m a meatball.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “I still don’t understand. What did you do that is so stupid?”

“I… I kissed you. I didn’t ask, I just assumed.”

“I kissed you. You didn’t have to ask. If I didn’t want to kiss you, don’t you think I could have stopped you?

His words were so matter-of-fact that Chris’ jaw dropped. It was true, despite being heavier and broader shouldered, he’s sure that Sebastian could stop him easily if he wanted to. But he hadn’t wanted to. Chris swallows, the room suddenly feeling very small.

“You’ll lend me a hand, yes?” Sebastian asks with a grin, reaching for a small tin off the dresser. He holds it out to Chris, offering it to him.

“What… what is this?” Chris holds the tin, cool and smooth in his calloused hand.

Sebastian makes quick work of unwrapping the strips of cloth from his knuckles, flexing his fingers. His motions are graceful, practiced, and despite the lust building in him, Chris feels awkward and uncoordinated. “Muscle rub,” Sebastian answers as if it should have been obvious. “If you would, please?” Flexing his fingers again, he unlaces the front of his trousers, turning his back towards Chris before letting them drop to the floor.

Chris’ eyes are drawn to the round curve of Sebastian’s backside as he walks unhurriedly to the bed, flopping onto his stomach. He’s sweating again, unsure how he’s ended up here, but glad. Chris opens the tin, placing the lid back onto the dresser before coming to stand beside the bed, the floorboards creaking under his footsteps. He hesitates, trying to figure out how he’s meant to do this. The enormity of the situation begins to make him feel dizzy and a little sick. He’s sure he knows what’s coming, there’s no mistaking Sebastian’s intentions. “I don’t… I’m not sure…”

 Resting his head on folded arms, Sebastian turns to look at Chris. “You strip too, da? Wouldn’t want to soil your uniform any further.”

It takes Chris a moment, fumbling with the tin, one handedly trying to pull his shirt over his head. In the end he undresses, under Sebastian’s watchful gaze. When his uniform joins Sebastian’s trousers on the floor, when he’s just as naked as the boxer, things somehow feel less intimidating, more natural.

Kneeling on the bed, alongside Sebastian, Chris dips two fingers into the tin, spreading the slightly greasy contents across Sebastian’s back. The muscles of Sebastian’s back feel tight under his hands, the skin just a bit too hot.

Sebastian simply rumbles, an “aaah” sound of relief as Chris continues to run the ointment across his skin. Chris touch is tentative at first, lightly pressing, exploring.

But only for a bit. Soon the circles he’s rubbing widen into long strokes up Sebastian’s back, coming to rest at the base of his neck for a moment, kneading softly then moving across to rub the tension from Sebastian’s shoulders.

The soft sounds, almost purrs, that Sebastian makes guide Chris’ hands as they move down Sebastian’s sides, fingertips gliding over ribs, drawing circles lower, towards the curve at the bottom of Sebastian’s spine. The small inflections in Sebastian’s tone encourage Chris as his fingers edge across the smooth skin, thumbs stroking, fingers massaging, hands sweeping across pliant flesh.

With a soft sigh, Chris rests his hand in the center of Sebastian’s back, moving with the rise and fall as the tension escapes from Sebastian’s body along with each breath. He wonders how long they could stay like this, relaxing in the comforting familiarity of being relative strangers. There are no expectations from either of them. They don’t really know anything about one another, besides the fact that they both _want_.

I’m not sorry you spilled my beer,” Chris whispers, bending his head to breathe the words into Sebastian’s hair.

Sebastian cranes his neck, turning his head to look up at Chris through half-lidded eyes. “I wasn’t actually sorry either.”

Chris chuckles before moving up to touch Sebastian’s neck softly. He watches Sebastian’s eyes drop closed as he releases a sigh.  “Roll over,” Chris urges gently, pressing just bit into Sebastian’s shoulder.

Sebastian’s eyes blink open and he focuses on Chris, smiling.

Chris runs a hand over Sebastian’s arm and tries to guide him to roll over. Sebastian rolls slowly, settling back onto the bed while Chris hovers over him, balanced on one elbow. Chris’ hands, still slick from the muscle rub, brush gently across Sebastian’s stomach, heading slowly downwards.

Chris marvels at the muscles shuddering beneath Sebastian’s skin as his hand skims over it, watching as Sebastian’s whole midsection twitches; he’s incredibly sensitive to Chris’ touch, if the resulting shivers and gasps coming from him now are any indication.

“Chris,” Sebastian breathes, grabbing onto Chris’ wrist

Chris isn’t sure whether Sebastian wants to stop his exploration or urge it on further. His skin tingles everywhere he’s connected to Sebastian, a heady, exciting feeling. “Yeah,” he replies instinctively, and Sebastian’s eyes drift shut again, fingers tightening around Chris’ wrist.

Chris leans in further, pressing himself to Sebastian’s side, his mouth coming to rest against Sebastian’s cheekbone as his hand dips down, following the curve of Sebastian’s hip.

Sebastian arches up off the bed, pushing back against Chris, and Chris can feel the moment when the heat running through Sebastian seeps into him and pulls him in. Their bodies move as one as he strokes Sebastian and thrusts gently against him and waits for them both to burn up from the intensity of the heat.

Hours later, in the cool, gray light of pre-dawn, Chris wakes to find Sebastian standing and staring out the window. His back is to the bed, but the moment Chris stirs, Sebastian turns, sensing his return to consciousness. He smiles at Chris, his eyes ringed with dark circles that match the bruises scattered across his face and torso.

Sitting up, Chris runs a hand through his hair and frowns at the crumpled mess of his uniform on the floor.

“You’re leaving me now?” Sebastian asks softly, his voice filled with resignation.

“Come back to bed,” Chris says, telling Sebastian, not asking.  “You still have me for another whole day and night.”


End file.
